Growing Together
by wickedworkings
Summary: Post-Mockingjay;  Katniss and Peeta back in District 12, as they piece together their lives.
1. PART ONE: Chapter 1

**GROWING TOGETHER  
><strong>Post-Mockingjay; Katniss and Peeta back in District 12, as they piece together their lives.

_Disclaimer: _I don't own any of this.

* * *

><p><strong>PART ONE: <em>RECOVERY<em>**

**Chapter One:**

I stand in front of the looking glass, examining my naked body in its reflection.

It's not me, I think stubbornly. It might not even be human. The contours are womanly enough, or at least, whatever contours this gaunt and tortured body can afford. But everything else registers as unfamiliar. These scars mark me forever as some sort of undesirable. Ragged and raw, they tear away at my neck, forearms, and hands. At least my face was spared, Effie had said, and that I could hide these scars – the awful, pinkish tissue – that have ravaged my body.

But what about the other ones, the ones that can't be seen?

I don't let the thought linger. After all, Dr. Aurelius suggested looking forward for the sake of progress. And what kind of progress could be made if I spend ten minutes of my day staring at these hideous mementos of trauma?

I lift my shirt, a billowy blue thing, from the floor and I pull it over my head. The change is remarkable. Clothed, I can pass for normal and on the road to recovery. Unclothed, I render myself naked physically and mentally, forced in the darkest recesses of my mind.

Once my pants are on and my hair arranged into a tighter braid, I draw the musky curtains open and let sunlight fill the room. It's sparsely decorated with minimal accommodations for my livelihood, yet the yellow light makes everything seem even fuller and better. Had I been on the outside looking in, I might even consider this to be a beautiful day.

Some days, it feels like hypocrisy to be living in my Victors' Village house, this "gift" from the Capitol. How could I live in a remnant of a time I wish so desperately to forget?

But other days – most days – I tell myself it's all I have left. It's the closest reminder I have of a time when I wasn't so utterly alone. When I had…

I can't bring myself to think of her. Otherwise, my mind burns and my eyes go red with endless images of fire, of burning. And then I ruminate the cruel irony that I had once been the Girl on Fire.

Like I do most mornings, I tend to the primrose bushes that Peeta planted outside the house. Against all odds, they've grown beautifully. It's all I can do to keep myself from fussing over them all day. Like Dr. Aurelius said: forward.

As I water the yellow blooms, my mind wanders to Peeta. These days, he lingers on my mind. But I hardly have a choice in the matter. For all that is wrong with Peeta, he still represents much of what light I have in my life. Haymitch rarely comes around, and my mother lives so far away and so afflicted with grief that she is nearly detached from my existence altogether. The rest of District 12 exists as anything else does in the aftermath of something as horrible and affecting as we have gone through. Gradually, life springs from the ashes. But only slowly and reluctantly.

Occasionally, I'll fruitlessly look over to Peeta's house. The only signs that he remains in District 12 are few and far between. Every now and then, I'll see a light from his windows, leading me to believe that he'd rather spend most of his time in darkness. But the air nearby smells of bread and warmth, leading me to believe he's been baking from his kitchen. And on the luckiest of days, I'll wake up to loaves of bread at my doorstep.

When I visit Greasy Sae, she tells me that he'll stop by with bread and other pastries. He's managed to make something of himself since we've returned home, and he might be doing even better than I am at going through the motions. Dr. Aurelius would be proud.

I can't deny that I've missed him. But then I ask myself if missing him now is any different from missing him before he was hijacked. And usually, I'll convince myself that it is. Before, he was still _my_ Peeta, the boy with the bread. Now, he is just as ruined as I am. I refuse to believe that we will ever grow together again. I'll convince myself that he's just not the same boy who used to live in that house, and I'll stop missing him as much.

But it rarely keeps the loneliness at bay.

* * *

><p>Two weeks have passed when he reaches out for the first time.<p>

I'm cooking stew when I hear the knock at the door. And I'm almost embarrassed by how breathless I'm left when I see him standing in my doorway.

"It's you," I say.

He's not as gaunt as I remember him, and I suspect that the baking has had something to do with that. He's not exactly smiling, but his expression is soft and vaguely familiar. I'm relieved when I see that his eyes are clearer than ever, and then I come to understand that we're making direct eye contact.

"Hi. I brought you something," he replies, and I worry that he's examining me too carefully. Then I realize he's holding a loaf of bread in one hand and a bag of cookies in the other. "Can I come in?"

I move aside so he can get past me. Shutting the door behind me, I watch him carefully as he looks around the house with a half-frown.

"What is it?" I ask.

"It's…empty," he decides. "I thought you would've decorated a bit."

"I haven't had the time," I say somewhat defensively, and I walk back to the kitchen, leaving him alone.

I stir the stew vigorously, hoping that these motions are enough to distract me from the situation. Suddenly, everything is shaken out of place with Peeta's arrival. Perhaps somewhat foolishly, I'd resigned him to a part of my life I figured I would never be able to visit again. It has been two months since I've last seen him, since he planted those bushes outside. The notion was enough to make me think he was making his goodbyes. But now he's here again, and I'm nauseous.

When I hear him enter behind me, I don't acknowledge him. Instead, I stare at my stew, watching as the wild carrots bob near the top and fat simmers to the sides, where I must skim it from the liquid. I wish he wouldn't speak, but at the same time I'm agonizing to hear his voice once more.

"Dr. Aurelius says I'm getting better," he says tentatively, like he's getting a feel for the waters. Then with a half chuckle, "But I don't really know. He might just be growing tired of talking to me all the time. He'd love to talk to you, you know."

The last time I picked up a phone was three weeks ago, when I first decided to start the book.

"I will," I lie. I feel like there's more to say, but whatever it is gets stuck in my throat.

I feel him move closer to me, but I'm sure he's as wary of the situation as I am. I hold my body closer to the stove.

"I was wondering if you'd be able to help me. With my memories," he adds quickly, as if pausing will only give me more time to push him away. "Like I said, Dr. Aurelius thinks I'm improving. But the gaps are still there."

I clear my throat to let him know I'm listening, but I still keep my mouth shut. I'm pouring as much of my patience and dedication into this stew as I can muster.

Soon, he's standing next to me so that I can see him in my periphery. I don't want to look him in the eyes again, afraid I'll see something I don't like.

"Haymitch said you're working on a book."

That catches my attention and I look at him. He looks startled by my sudden attentiveness.

"You've seen Haymitch?"

"Just once," he says quickly and earnestly. "Last week. I figured I'd bring him something to eat, something to soak up the drink. He was still pretty drunk when I saw him, and a little combative," he says, pointing to a light purple mark on his cheek. "But he mentioned your book, and I thought that might help fill in some of the blanks."

I look intently at him, expecting him to lash out or do something that would betray the moment. But he looks like the same Peeta, more or less, and that's as much as I can ask for. Doubt creeps inside me, but I remember the loneliness.

"I haven't started," I admit. "The thoughts are there, but I'm having trouble starting. I hunt to clear my mind, but nothing ever really leaves."

He nods, and something tells me he understands the burden of a heavy mind. And then I wonder how much more difficult it must be to have it clouded with falsities and deception. My heart starts to ache.

"You can help if you want. That might help put things into place. We can even start tomorrow, if that works for you."

Light shines through Peeta's features, as if this is what he's been waiting to hear.

"I would love that," he says. He smiles at me, and there's a strange bubbling in my stomach that threatens to outweigh the doubt. But the prospect of fighting the loneliness is too great to rethink the situation.

I nod and I consider asking him to leave, but instead, "Do you want to stay for dinner? It's not much, but it's stew."

Surprisingly, he shakes his head. "I've eaten. And I should get to bed. I wake up early to start baking. But I'll come over around noon."

I lead him to the front door, where we stand in silence for a few moments. I consider how, if we were in a better place than this, he might not be leaving. Instead, he would be going upstairs to a bed we shared together, where he would hold me and keep the nightmares at bay. But we're both too weak for any of that.

He looks at me with strange determination. Then he says, "I've missed you, Katniss."

That becomes too much for me to bear right now, and I open the door.

"I'll see you tomorrow," I say. And the words sting as they fall out.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: <strong>So, this is my first _Hunger Games_ fic, and I've always wanted to try it out. This story is essentially just going to be filling in the gaps of everything that Suzanne Collins left for us to interpret at the end of _Mockingjay_. Let me know what you guys think! I have some things written out after this, but I want to know if it's worth following up. Give me as much feedback as you can!


	2. Chapter 2

**GROWING TOGETHER  
><strong>Post-Mockingjay; Katniss and Peeta back in District 12, as they piece together their lives.

_Disclaimer: _I don't own any of this.

* * *

><p><strong>CHAPTER TWO:<strong>

It's another beautiful day outside and against my better instincts, I decide to go for a morning hunt.

I walk past Peeta's house where the surrounding air smells so tangibly of bread, I have to force myself to keep moving forward. As I walk along, I wonder what our meeting today will hold. The muted look of disappointment on his face last night as I willed him away haunted my nightmares last night, the same expression he wore as he joined the others in dumping ashes over my body.

Barely two months have passed since our return and already, District 12 shows the promise of new life. Walking into the square, people go about their daily business like nothing had happened, like we were here all along.

But we've all suffered the same: refugees who have come home simply because there's nowhere else to go. Even I – Mockingjay and Girl on Fire all at once – have returned hoping for some newfound purpose to lead me through the looming ambiguity. We're all going through the motions and waiting for meaning, and I wonder what would happen if more doctors like Aurelius could treat my people.

A woman with a wrinkled face smiles at me and I suppose I offer a twitch of my lips. Otherwise, genuine smiles are hard to come by. I've never been one for children, but I wonder how much brighter our district would be if there were sounds of children playing once more. For now, it's only us – the bruised and the broken – who comprise this ashen place. The promise of a future with youthfulness and playfulness tempts my mind, but it's so far ahead of the horizon that I can't fixate on it.

I spend a couple minutes wondering how to cross the Meadow. The pit, once so deep and so terrifying, has been filled in with earth and sprouts of new life threaten to push through. But I am intrigued yet fearful of the place all at once. Do I walk around the mass grave, or do I walk through it forgetfully like everyone else has?

I skirt the area, not ready to play pretend just yet. I enter the woods where I normally do, where an overwhelming sense of calm falls on me and I realize I won't be hunting today, after all. I'll live off Peeta's bread and Greasy Mae's offerings until I have no choice but to hunt again. Instead, I find a place to set my quiver and bows aside and I sit down.

The forest is full of sounds and I wonder how life can continue in a place like this. Although I've come back here a couple times since I've returned, I have difficulty grasping the fact that none of this will ever be the same again. There are moments when I delude myself into believing that Gale will be waiting for me. But reality sets back in, and I realize I can breathe easier when I realize he is far away from me.

Moments like this remind me that I'm not the Katniss that I used to be.

Time passes in the forest – maybe minutes, maybe an hour or two – before I remember my meeting with Peeta.

Peeta.

And I realize that as long as he's around, there are parts of me that will never leave, parts that will never change.

I gather my belongings and wander slowly out of the forest, absorbing as much of my verdant and vibrant surroundings as I can.

* * *

><p>"Did you go hunting this morning?" he asks, sitting a measured distance from me on the couch. The sunlight catches parts of his blond hair so that the tips look translucent.<p>

I give him a look, brow furrowed.

"I saw you leave," he clarifies. "Through the window."

"Oh," I say. I never considered that he might be keeping a watchful eye on me, much like I've been doing with him. "Not really. There was nothing to catch."

"I've got more bread if you need more food," he says, even though he brought several loaves over with him.

Peeta. Always the provider, always the boy with the bread.

"I'm good for now, thank you." Everything feels foreign and a little forced. With the exception of last night, this is our first real conversation alone.

He nods and I notice his hands held together, his fingers intertwined and clutching onto each other as if he's steadying himself. He doesn't look like he's being tortured by flashbacks, so what could he be steadying himself against? Me?

My mind is racing faster than it has in a long while. Part of me wishes that I hadn't answered the door earlier, that I had let him take the hint and let him walk away. But the other, louder part of me longs to be with Peeta for the sense of familiarity he brings with him. Nothing feels like desire yet – not the same kind of hunger I felt on the beach that one day – but I worry that I might feel it again.

Would it be so bad?

And then I wonder if he wants me at all to begin with. I don't know if I'll ever fully comprehend the extent to which the Capitol infiltrated his mind and took away everything that made him undeniably _Peeta_. They took away what he felt for me – did they take away my feelings as well?

Realizing that my internal war might never be put to rest, I sigh.

"I'm not so sure how I want to go about doing all of this," I say tentatively, ignoring how he must be looking at me. Instead, I look at the table before us, arranged with old photos and objects strewn around a tattered but blank book that Sae left for me before. "I just want to remember."

Looking up, I watch as Peeta carefully observes everything before him. There's a quizzical but focused expression on his face, and I'm sure it's the first time in a long while that he's been this determined about something. And I think I feel the same way. Here is a solid, definable task at hand. We're not moving aimlessly; we're moving to a goal.

He carefully lifts a page torn from a book where I once drew the small pond in the woods where my father taught me to swim. The graphite has smudged a bit, but otherwise it's in good shape.

"Did you draw this?" he asks, his eyes still on the drawing.

"Yes," I reply. And I'm surprised by how he smiles. It's a smile that brings an unexpected flush of warmth inside of me, extending upwards until I reciprocate the motion before I even realize it. It feels strange on my face, but it's familiar enough that I'm sure I could do it again.

He looks at me. "It's very good."

I remember Peeta's paintings and I'm tempted to tell him that his are better. But I take the compliment and store it somewhere deep inside me, somewhere I can visit it again if I ever need to.

He sets it in between the pages of Sae's book and takes a moment to analyze what he's done. But when he grins, I'm sure he's pleased.

"I think…I think we should make it a picture book," he says. "That'll be the best way. We'll include what pictures we have and we'll draw everything else we can remember. Every little thing so that we don't forget any of it."

I shake my head. "_You'll_ do the drawing. I'd rather write something at the bottom."

He raises a brow and answers, "You're not bad yourself."

"It was a fluke," I say, but I'm careful not to get combative.

He shrugs. "Maybe. But I'll do the illustrations if that's what you want. You're better at remembering anyway."

The words weren't meant to hurt, but they hit me like a ton of bricks anyway. And then it occurs to me that Peeta might need this book even more than I do. My reasons are selfish; I want to keep Prim and Rue and Cinna and others with me for as long as I can. But for Peeta? He just wants to be himself again.

We get started, and I fear that I might be giving myself away with how enthusiastic I am. I want to help Peeta, and if this book can help him remember, then I want to make sure we do it right.

Our pages today are beautiful. Peeta has done a wonderful job of drawing what I could only see in my mind: Prim's braids, Rue's small frame, Annie's sad but beautiful smile. And he comes up with the idea to seal everything with salt water. The entire process makes me wonder how I would get by these days without Peeta's influence, even when he's not there.

Every now and then, I watch him as he illustrates. He's so wrapped up in his work that he doesn't notice my stare. I can tell that he's giving so much of himself to this project, trading what he can for fragments of days and memories from so long ago. I wait to see if recognition will flash across his face, but all I see is his concentration. For him, that might be enough for now.

But not for me.

I clear my throat. "We should play a couple rounds of that game. Real or not real."

He looks up from the book, where he's in the process of drawing Finnick's trident. "What?" he asks.

"You said there were still gaps. Maybe some of what we've done today has helped."

He remains still for a moment before setting the book down and placing his hands in his lap. He's watching me carefully, like he's waiting for me to change my mind. Well, I'm not going to.

Finally, he says, "You don't want me here. Real or not real?"

I'm surprised by how quickly I answer.

"Not real," I respond. "I want to help you. And it's no good if you're gone for two months at a time again."

He smiles, and there's that warmth again.

"Okay," he whispers. "You have nightmares, too. Real or not real?"

"Real," I answer. "Ever since my dad died. And even worse since we got out of the arena the first time. You're not alone."

"I'm not alone," he repeats, getting a taste for the words in his mouth. I wait for another smile, but his expression disappears when he's deep in thought. I can tell he's carefully considering his next question, wanting to make it count. And I don't blame him. I understand how withdrawn I can be; I'm rarely ever this giving.

Then something clicks into place and he knows what to ask. For whatever reason, my insides seize up and I find myself dreading his question.

He gives me a hardened stare and somehow, I know what's going to come out of his mouth before it happens.

"You love me. Real or not real?"

But it still knocks the wind out of me. My limbs feel numb, like lukewarm noodles dangling awkwardly at my sides. I think of all the places I could look at, but my eyes keep going back to Peeta's face, which falls more into sadness the longer I wait to answer. There's some kind of reply waiting for me at the back of my throat, but it doesn't come out. He scrunches his brow and I know I've disappointed him.

"It's – I can't –" I stammer. I'm trying to get more out, but he shakes his head.

"No, it's okay," he says evenly. "I shouldn't have asked the question. I just…I can't get past that nagging feeling."

I frown. This was the opposite of what I wanted to do. I wanted to fill in those gaps, but my lameness has only made them wider.

"But I guess it's no different from the other things I can't be sure of," he sighs. "Maybe one day, you'll be able to give me a definite answer."

My heart sinks. I know that one day I'll be able to give him a definite answer when I've given it thought. I just don't know if it'll be the answer he wants to hear.

We sit in silence for longer than I can comprehend. We've done as much with the book as we can today, and yet neither of us makes the motion to finish up until next time. He sits there with his interlocked fingers, and I wait stupidly for some sign to lift me from this trap. Maybe the door will burst open and a drunken Haymitch will end this awkwardness. But that's wishful thinking on my part.

Finally, he whispers my name so quietly I almost miss it altogether.

"Katniss?"

"Yeah?"

"Could I kiss you?"

I'm like a fish out of water again. If there was ever a record for the most questions that could make me as lame as a duck, this is it.

This time, I have to stare at him in astonishment. Was he actually asking this question? Of all the things I could have expected to follow the awkwardness of his last question, asking to kiss me might as well be at the very bottom of the list.

But Peeta holds his ground and just looks at me patiently. He'll wait for me to sort out a response all day if he has to.

"Peeta," I say, fighting for something more. "I don't know if that's a good idea."

And this is when he chooses to smile. There's no warmth this time, only discomfort.

"It might be," he says with unexpected coolness. "Maybe it'll give us an answer to my last question."

He's got me there. Maybe something physical will jump-start any residual affection I have for him. As for him? It'll either do the same, or it'll compel him to choke me instead. Regardless, neither of those outcomes bode well if I find I don't love him after all.

I don't say anything in response. Instead, I shift closer to him on the couch, awkwardly dragging myself to where he is sitting. I expect him to change his mind, but he sits there resolutely.

He lets me take control of the situation, which infuriates me. But I maintain my composure and lean forward, waiting for everything to end. He finally leans in with me, and I feel the heat of his breath on my cheek. And much like fire thawing a block of ice, I crack.

"I can't," I say, pulling back and jolting both of us back to reality. He sits there, stunned, and I find it's difficult to breathe. "It's not right."

He stands up so quickly and I get scared for a moment. But he swiftly moves past me toward the front door. He turns the doorknob and pushes, letting the twilight fill the room. But before leaving, he turns around, avoiding my glance altogether.

"I'll see you again," he says sternly. Then he walks out and slams the door behind him.

It's only five minutes later when my cheeks are damp with moisture that I realize I've been crying. I wipe the tears away, furious with myself for crying at all, and march upstairs into my bed where more nightmares certainly await.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: <strong>Thanks so much for the positive feedback right off the bat! Please please please let me know what you guys think, because one of the most saddening things is when a really good fic starts veering in a bad direction, and I don't want to do that with this! So I'd definitely love to get some kind of response from you guys. Also, I'm concentrating this story on Peeta and Katniss's relationship for the first couple chapters or so. Other characters, like Haymitch, will show up soon, but not just yet. I'm enjoying writing about Peeta and Katniss way too much!


	3. Chapter 3

**GROWING TOGETHER  
><strong>Post-Mockingjay; Katniss and Peeta back in District 12, as they piece together their lives.

_Disclaimer: _I don't own any of this.

* * *

><p><strong>CHAPTER THREE:<strong>

There is no sign of Peeta the next day. Or the day after that. Or for the rest of the week.

It isn't until a week and a half later that the smell of bread comes from his house again, and I come to the conclusion that he's finished with me.

I would say just as well, but the book lies open on the table where he last set it down. I walk past it every day, and I swear it calls to me, begging for completion. But I find that I can't move on without him. And to think I planned on doing it alone from the beginning.

My bread supply is dwindling, and Greasy Sae hasn't come around in a while. Things are improving for her in the town square. I suppose I should be happy, but all I can think about is how I'll have to go hunting eventually.

I hunt again the day after Peeta's house comes to life with the scent of baked goods. I bring home three squirrels – not too bad for someone getting into the swing of things again. At least, it's enough to bring one to Sae and to cook the rest in a stew. Hunting breathes new life into me and I make a mental note to tell Dr. Aurelius of this new development. My trips into the woods have been more overwhelming than anything else lately, so being able to hunt brings me to a state of mind a little closer to the former Katniss.

Not that I'll ever be the former Katniss again. But it's something.

With meat constantly in the house once more, I consider that perhaps I don't need Peeta anymore. I'll work on the book on my own, which was the plan to begin with.

My mind wanders to a reality where we end up leading separate lives. He'll find some kind girl, one who will eat his bread and cookies, who will accept and give kisses, who will spend every day telling him how much she loves him. They'll have beautiful, fat children with his eyes, his hair, and his kindness. And he'll never doubt his love for her, a love that was never clouded with tracker jacker venom.

Meanwhile, I'll live in Victor's Village, in the same area but in another world entirely. Who will I have? Perhaps Haymitch, if the alcohol doesn't wear him away early. I'll inherit his bitterness and maybe even his penchant for drink. My life will be spent wallowing and waiting for its end, flipping through the pages of my unfinished book searching for some unreachable closure. I've never needed much, anyway.

Some part of me secretly hopes that everything plays out this way, if only to spite everyone and everything around me. I'll die like anyone else, and not like the Mockingjay I once was.

Yet I can't deny the part of me that wishes for Peeta to knock on my door again. There are times that his absence feels akin to the time during his imprisonment in the Capitol, when he was so far away from me. I know it makes no sense to feel this way and live so close to each other, yet somehow the proximity has worsened the situation. How can he disregard me altogether when I can see him living his life from outside my window?

I'd love to say I could be the girl who could bear his children, who could live the kind of life he desires with him. But could I live in constant apprehension, wondering when his next flashback will happen? And could he accept my desire to never have children? These answers are unattainable. All I know at the moment is the pain of being so close yet so far away from him. We lasted two months before, yet now I doubt I'll last two weeks.

But I know myself too well, and I wonder how long my stubbornness will allow this separation to last.

* * *

><p>I'm back to tending the primroses one morning when I hear him open and close his front door. Loudening footsteps lead me to understand that he's standing behind me.<p>

I don't turn around.

"I have bread. And cheese buns," he says after a lingering silence. I almost laugh at how ridiculous it sounds. It's simple, yet it feels like a loaded statement.

Without looking up, I respond, "I don't need them. I've started hunting again. I can manage on my own now." It's petty, but satisfaction blooms inside me from not having been the first to make contact.

"Katniss," he says in a way that makes me resent my name. "Please."

I take a breath and set the watering can on the ground. I turn around and get a good look at him. He's standing there, his hair glowing in the noontime sunlight with an apologetic half-smile and a loaf of bread and a bag of cheese buns in his arms. There's something grumbling in my stomach, but whether it's hunger or something worse, I refuse to acknowledge it.

"You know, you don't need to bake for me anymore, _Peeta_." I make sure to place proper emphasis on his name. "I'm not your responsibility, so you can stop feeling like you need to take care of me. We're both getting back into the swing of things, and it might just be easier if we stop all of this. I'd really rather not be your burden."

I move to go back inside the house, but he stops me by extending his arms and the bread and buns toward me. His face is pleading now.

"Take them," he says softly but firmly. "I'm not going to stop giving you bread and I'm definitely not going to stop caring for you. And if anyone's the burden here, it's me. So go on, take them."

He holds them out even further.

Damn you, Peeta. Guilt overwhelms my senses to the point that I have no choice but to march up and grab the bread from him. For a moment, we just stare at each other, unwilling to break what we have between us right now. I'm sure I must look horrible to him right now, a mean thing with a combative and doubtful expression.

Suddenly, I'm aware of how nasty and unwelcoming I must look and I just heave a sigh, hoping that my expression has softened somewhat. I shake my head.

"You said you would see me again," I say. "You said that and then you waited two weeks. You can't leave but come by whenever you want to. That's not how it works, Peeta."

I'm surprised when he nods solemnly in agreement. He looks so broken right now.

"I had a nightmare that night," he explains, scanning the ground with his eyes. "It was kind of a bad one, and suddenly, I didn't know if it was safe to come here again. It took me this long to convince myself it was."

Everything inside me starts to hurt. Whether intentional or not, he always has a way of breaking me down in ways I can't anticipate. Now, I just want to hug him. But obviously, I don't.

"I don't know if it'll ever get better," he continues, and his voice starts to break a little. He keeps his glance away from my direction, but I can tell that his eyes are swelling with tears.

The sun beats down on us from its highest point in the sky. If I stay out here too long, my neck and arms will certainly burn. Though I've already been scorched by fire, I'd rather avoid the outcome. But with Peeta so close to the edge, I can't.

I move closer to him, albeit warily. With bread in one arm, I wrap the other around his shoulders, and I realize this is our first physical contact in a long time. His shoulders are familiar, muscled and broad. I must look silly comforting someone that looks like Peeta, but thankfully, no one is watching us. Unsupervised moments like these have been few and far between in the time we have known each other.

"I have nightmares, too, remember?" I say. It's meant to help, but I don't know if it does.

He sniffles, still in my half-embrace. "How does it get better?"

I'm not going to lie to him.

"It never really does. Some nights, I luck out and I have one night's sleep of complete dreamlessness. But even then, it's bittersweet with nothing pleasant to dream about in its place. It's always hard, and always very lonely."

As I say it, a thought pops into my head. Immediately, I want to banish it, but I give it a few seconds to gestate. I come to the conclusion that it's dumb to consider it at all. But Peeta needs this desperately, and I'm not so sure I'd be ashamed in admitting that I do, too.

"There was one thing that used to help," I say.

"What?"

"We used to sleep together. We'd sleep in the same bed, hoping that we wouldn't have nightmares anymore."

Peeta seems surprised by that, but not unconvinced. He raises his head and looks at me.

"Did that work?"

"Sometimes," I respond, still holding him. "Sometimes for both of us, sometimes for neither of us. But it was always…nice. It was comforting to have someone with you who could understand. I always felt bad because I would usually thrash and wake you. But you never woke me."

"Oh."

I wonder if I've held him too long. If so, it's getting to a point where our stance is becoming awkward, bordering on unwelcome. So I'm not sure what it is that compels me to say the next thing that comes out of my mouth.

"We can try it again," I suggest. "It might help with the nightmares."

I can tell that Peeta isn't expecting this. After all, how could he expect anything so intimate from the girl who couldn't kiss him?

"Really?"

I nod. "I miss it." And I realize that I'm not lying.

He's still surprised, but he says, "That would be nice."

"We can start tonight," I say, riding on the wave of my unexpected confidence. "If that works with you, I mean."

He doesn't say anything. He only nods.

I'm certain now that I've held him for too long. I let go of him and we share faint smiles. I sense trepidation in him, and I'll admit that doubts are starting to creep up on me. But I've already denied Peeta so much recently. And maybe for the first time since coming back to District 12, I'll be able to sleep without nightmares. At the very least, it'll be something familiar.

"I'll see you tonight then," I say.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: <strong>If you guys are worried that having them share a bed is making things move too quickly, don't worry! I feel the same way, and Katniss has (or will have!) the same concerns. I'm just of the mind that Katniss's dedication to helping Peeta, mixed with her conflicted feelings toward him, would ultimately cause her to blurt this out against her better judgment. But don't get to thinking that this means that falling in love is right around the corner again - because I like seeing them take their time. That being said, I'd love more feedback from you guys! You've been way too kind to me thus far!


	4. Chapter 4

**GROWING TOGETHER  
><strong>Post-Mockingjay; Katniss and Peeta back in District 12, as they piece together their lives.

_Disclaimer: _I don't own any of this.

* * *

><p><strong>CHAPTER FOUR:<strong>

Later, I wonder if it's too soon to share my bed with Peeta again.

Sure, there's always the probability that some fit of madness will riddle his mind and lead him to throttle me to death in the middle of the night. But that's not necessarily what concerns me.

This emotional tug-of-war inside me seems to have no end. How much of my offer comes from actually wanting to help him? How much of it comes from the more selfish desire to have him near me again? Suddenly, I'm reminded of the mission I shared with Haymitch during the Quarter Quell: keep Peeta alive. And even now, when much has been said and done, the mission doesn't seem to have changed. But have I clouded it with my own motives, borne of loneliness?

I can't deny that I miss his presence and protection; that's a given. But I worry that the invitation to my bed will only confuse us more, especially now when the most important task is restoring Peeta to his normal self.

At any rate, it's too late to do anything now. He'll be here later tonight. I sigh and I continue my art.

Peeta's absence has afforded me one luxury: the ability to attempt illustration without his watchful eye.

When I thought that he wasn't coming back, I figured I would have to perfect my drawing abilities for the book's sake. So far, I've only tried my hand at simple things: the leafy treetops from the first arena, an arrow in its quiver, and a silver parachute gliding downward from the sky. When I come back inside, I start working on an outline of the Capitol. At first, it's difficult to pull my mental imagery of it to the forefront of my mind. But soon, I hit a rhythm that lasts me into late afternoon as it transitions into early evening.

It has hardly occurred to me to turn on a light – electricity has been surprisingly consistent lately – when I hear the knock on my door.

I sit straight up and wonder who it could be. Peeta said he would come by late at night, when he had finished cleaning up at his house. But from the dusky light outside, it must only be seven or eight. I set my illustration and the book back down on the table and go to open the door.

"Sorry I'm early," Peeta says when he sees the look of confusion on my face. He's holding a pot. "But Greasy Sae told me to bring you this broth tonight."

Peeta Mellark. Always with the food.

I tell him it's okay and I let him into the house. He goes to the couch where he immediately looks at my drawing. For half a second, I think to throw my body across the table so he can't see it. But it's too late now.

He looks up with a wry grin.

"I told you," he says. "You _are_ good at this."

I'm too weary to argue, so I collapse on the couch next to him and roll my eyes.

"If you say so. Now, what's this I hear about broth?"

Peeta is all too eager to hand me the pot along with a spoon. I take off the lid and instantly, I'm greeted with the aroma of fresh broth. I haven't even realized how hungry I am until I take my first spoonful.

"You've eaten?"

He nods and lifts the book from the table and carefully examines the progress I've made so far. His face flashes with approval when he reaches my newest illustrations, and something inside me suggests that maybe his encouragement might actually be genuine.

It's a nice thought to hold onto as I finish the last of the broth. Usually, this is hardly enough to fill me up. But right now, I'm pleasantly full. If there's one thing that can be said for the time since returning to District 12, it's that days with nourishment are happily more common than days without.

Maybe things are improving after all.

I set the pot down and watch as Peeta pulls folded sheets of paper from his pocket. He considers putting them on the table but ultimately hands them over to me. I eye him carefully, but there's a calm expression on his face that asks me to look at them first.

I unfold the first sheet and find a carefully painted illustration of a wedding cake – the one he frosted for Finnick and Annie's wedding. This painting barely holds a candle to the real thing, which with its intricate ocean-themed design and detail was one of the most dazzling things I'd ever seen. But the blues and greens and sea-foamed tips here remind me strongly of that day, and the brief reprieve we all had to join in their happiness.

Finnick. His handsome face fills my mind and I have to shut my eyes to force it out. It's all I can do to keep from tossing the rest of Peeta's drawings aside.

"Katniss?" His voice is soft and concerned. "Are you okay?"

I open my eyes, nodding. I don't want to show weakness in front of Peeta when I'm supposed to be helping him. But I can't help it. Surely he understands.

"This is really beautiful," I tell him, and I set it down on the table.

The others are just as effortlessly drawn – some from recent memories and others from ones that he needed help remembering. One of my favorites is a sunset, a spectacular display of orange and yellow. Another one is a window to the night sky, which reminds me to open the windows in the bedroom before we sleep tonight. The one after is the interior of his father's bakery, reconstructed from memory after its destruction in our district's bombing.

But the one that catches my attention is the last one. It's the figure of a child – undeniably feminine – cowering beneath a tree, sheets of rain falling around her. I can't see her face but I know how she feels. It's so vivid that I can almost feel the iciness of the rain as it drums against my skin. I know it all.

Because this is a drawing of me.

I stare at the painting for a long while, transfixed for some undefined reason. The pain I expect to come keeps its distance, and instead I feel something I can't quite explain. There's a sense of sympathy for this child, kin and alien all at once. But there's also mild fear. Like I would rather push her away than help her now.

"Real or not real?"

Peeta's voice comes like a knife slicing through the silence. I don't know how long he has been watching me, but it's long enough that his question shocks me back to reality. I place the painting so that it joins the others.

"It appears in my dreams now and then," he says. "I can't tell."

"It's real," I answer.

He looks relieved as he sinks into the couch. He was probably waiting until I got to that picture, and I'm glad that there are still ways I can help him.

"It's never a nightmare," he says, closing his eyes. "I don't think I can explain it properly. But something about it helps me focus myself. Almost like…I have purpose again."

"What purpose?" I ask.

"To protect you."

Had I been the old Katniss, the one before or even during the first Hunger Games that could have killed Peeta without second thought, I would have hated that comment. I would have despised it. I've been self-sufficient ever since my mother took it upon herself to stare into space rather than raise her daughters. Which was why I resented Peeta and his burned bread for the longest time. I hate the feeling of being in someone's debt, or someone's ward.

But now, I don't seem to mind it much. I should be concerned – is he in any right state of mind to take on the task of protecting me? – but I'm not too bothered. It almost makes sense in the aftermath of everything that's happened. When the isolation has settled in, what other roles can we take on?

"I hope that doesn't upset you," he says when I fail to respond. "I know how you like your independence."

I shake my head. "It doesn't upset me."

* * *

><p>I open the window because Peeta won't sleep otherwise.<p>

"Thanks," he says when I return to the bed.

"Are you comfortable?" I ask him. He's already lying down and under the blanket. Suddenly, I just want everything to be perfect.

He must sense my anxiety because he actually laughs. It's strange to hear, but it soothes my nerves at least. But I remain sitting on the edge of the bed.

He offers the kindest smile he can muster. "Why are you so worried? You said yourself we've done this before. This time shouldn't be any different."

His words ring true, and yet I don't believe him right away.

"I don't know why I'm so jumpy all of a sudden," I admit.

"Then why don't you come here and join me? Maybe that'll help things."

What a line. But it's a line that works.

I turn off the light and slip into bed with him. At first, I keep my distance and occasionally look over at him. His features are muted by the moonlight glow, but his lack of heavy breathing tells me he's not asleep just yet. I don't know why, but I feel the need to wait for him to fall asleep before I can follow suit. However, five minutes haven't even passed when I realize he's onto me.

"This doesn't work if you're not sleeping," says Peeta.

"I could say the same for you," I respond. "Just go to bed already."

"I can't sleep if you're watching me," he replies just staring at the ceiling above us.

We're so close to each other, yet extremely careful to ensure that we don't touch. And maybe that's the problem.

Without saying anything, I move closer to Peeta. Almost instantly, he repositions his arm so that it reaches above me, inviting me to move even closer to him. I think about this for a moment, but I move into the space between us anyway.

Warmth. That's what awaits me when I make contact with his body for the first time. The nights have been so cold lately that this sensation is peculiar but welcome all at once. He wraps his arm around me and my mind is flooded with memories of nights spent sleeping together in the Capitol. How long ago that all seems.

Pressed against him and positioned comfortably in the crook of his arm, I don't even remember falling asleep. It's not until the next morning when light peers into the room that I process what has happened. I'm even more surprised to find that his face is dangerously close to mine.

In the faint sunlight, I can see all of his features. His blond eyelashes. His smooth jaw. The curvature of his lips. And in the next few moments when he wakes up, his blue eyes.

"You fell asleep," he grunts.

"We fell asleep," I correct him.

"Did you have any nightmares?" he asks.

"No," I reply. "You?"

Something like relief washes across his face when he says, "No."

I don't mind when he pulls me closer to him so that we are touching again. After a peaceful night's sleep like that, we bask in the afterglow, entwined in each other's bodies and delaying the inevitable moment when we must get out of bed.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: <strong>Hope you guys liked it! As always, feedback is greatly appreciated!


	5. Chapter 5

**GROWING TOGETHER  
><strong>Post-Mockingjay; Katniss and Peeta back in District 12, as they piece together their lives.

_Disclaimer: _I don't own any of this.

* * *

><p><strong>CHAPTER FIVE:<strong>

Two weeks have passed and we have fallen into this routine. We spend some days apart, conducting our own business and doing what we normally do to move on. Other days, he doesn't leave. Instead, we have breakfast together and find ourselves working on the book until sunset, when it doesn't make sense for him to leave again. But every night, he holds me in his arms. Not every night is terror-free, but I'm always relieved to wake up and find him holding me. More often than not, he smiles at me and I return the favor. Our lives are a little brighter to have been able to share our nights together. I worry that something will happen to make him leave me alone again, but it's a thought that I can't let sit for too long. It's not worth the burden.

Soon, my house starts to smell of bread and pastries. On the off chance that I wake up alone in bed and fearing the worst, I'm relaxed by the aroma of baking goods coming from the kitchen. Cheesy buns line available counter space and I suggest bringing some over to Haymitch, but to no avail. We think he may have shut us out altogether.

I'm happy, but never completely so. I live in lingering fear that something will shatter the illusion and bring me back to my senses. This is the closest I have been to sustained contentment. Every now and then, Peeta and I will exchange glances and we'll look into each other's eyes for an unmeasured amount of time. And then something will bring us back to ourselves, and I'm left fighting for explanations again.

One day that Peeta is not at my house, I turn on the television set. I'm never compelled to do so, and even on this day, I can't think of a need. But my mind is weary and I've grown so used to working on the book with Peeta that doing anything without him almost feels counterproductive. So I turn to the television.

I'm standing up so that when the face appears on the screen, I topple over onto the sofa. I'm lucky to have avoided landing in a heap on the floor.

Gale.

We've barely scratched three months and Gale already looks like he has aged three years. I never knew the nature of the fancy job that Greasy Sae informed of, but it looks like he's taken a position overlooking the reformation of Peacekeepers and the reconstruction of Panem altogether.

"Our hope is to dispatch squads at a time to the districts that need assistance first and foremost, namely those closest to the Capitol that suffered most toward the end of the war," he says as part of his interview.

I mute the television so that only Gale's lips are moving but never making sound, and I get a chance to really look at him.

His hair is longer but groomed nicely, and his face has the appearance of someone hardened by their profession. All in all, he looks like he has settled nicely in this new life of his. But it's still something that catches me off-guard.

I wonder who he's been keeping up with now. Has some other girl caught his attention? If so, are they happy together? Does she give him a sense of purpose? Would she disapprove if he ever went hunting? Now that he's a government official, I can't imagine that coming by food is a problem anymore.

But most importantly, I hope he's happy. His happiness would bring peace to my mind.

As I ruminate over Gale's new life even more, I feel a growing sense of loneliness opening up inside me. It would have been too easy to hate him after everything that happened. Instead, I was thankful for his distance and refusal to return home. So why does his appearance on the television take such a toll on me?

When things took a turn for the worse after my father died, I had Gale. He was my rock. He saved me from the depths my mother fell into and taught me much of what I know today. In the process, he conditioned me to believe that there could always be one good thing to come even from the darkest situations.

What would he say to me now, if he saw that I was still groping in the dark for that one good thing?

Hunting hasn't been the same without him. Then again, not much has been the same in District 12. But I knew that especially about hunting from the beginning. The forest is somehow larger and more isolating at the same time. In the thicket of trees, the only place where I used to feel like myself, I am only going through the motions and hunting for survival more than emotional necessity.

But was it always because of Gale? Or was it because of the company that could lift me from the confines of having to care for a family on my own? If I were to take a good, hard look at my life right now, I don't know that I would hesitate to say that Peeta has managed to lift me from the darkness. As much as we are both still floundering, he has this undeniable effect on me.

I miss the woods as they used to be. Without them, I can't be certain if I'm the best version of myself that I can muster. So I come to this conclusion that loneliness has, once again, robbed the very essence of something that was once so comforting and freeing. And as such, I've decided.

I'm bringing Peeta with me the next time I go hunting.

* * *

><p>Twigs snap and break beneath Peeta's feet, and I wonder how I ever forgot his rough tread from the first Hunger Games. We've been in the forest 20 minutes and I have yet to see any game.<p>

"Sorry," he says sheepishly from behind me as another stick cracks – more like explodes – from under him.

It takes an incredible amount of restraint to keep from shooting him through the foot with an arrow. But I remember how much he's helped me, and how much I still need to help him. And not a lot of progress can be made on an impaled foot.

"It's fine," I say evenly, although my desire to hunt is waning by the minute. I'm starting to understand how much I am a creature of habit; isolation has become somewhat of a specialty of mine.

Then again, it's not like he wanted to be here in the first place. I had to force him when I showed up on his doorstep, practically begging for company. I gave him some line about how it might help clear his mind, but in reality, this was more for me. So I really can't complain.

"Maybe I should just head back," Peeta says when we arrive at a clearing. But he seems transfixed by his surroundings, like he's seeing the forest for the first time. And then it occurs to me that maybe it is.

"Don't head back," I say encouragingly. "We're having fun, aren't we?"

"I don't have anything to hunt with. I don't even know how to hunt!" he says petulantly, like a small child. And I have to suppress a laugh.

But it's true. Peeta grew up a baker's son. And as a blond-haired, blue-eyed member of a well-off merchant family, hunting was never really a required skill. Yet I don't resent him for it. After all, we've ended up in the same place now, haven't we? Lost and confused, trying to make sense of everything that's happened since the day Effie Trinket came to District 12 for our fateful Reaping.

"You could always throw flour at a squirrel," I suggest, and Peeta has to give that several moments to settle before he realizes I'm only joking.

He half-chuckles and says, "Katniss, look. There's a reason that you're the hunter between us. It's not like you're scaring everything off with your stomping. Just let me go back and I'll bake us something."

But I'm stubborn and I shake my head. I didn't bring Peeta out here only so I could be left alone again. I think for a moment and decide that if we're going to be friends – and I mean _really_ be friends, since the fear of having to kill him in the Games is no longer over my head – he has to be able to hunt. Or at least know what it means to hunt. Because if he doesn't understand that, then I fear he won't ever understand me completely.

I hand him the bow and an arrow from my sheath. He looks at me like I've gone crazy. And maybe I have.

"No!" he responds after a beat. "You can't do that! What if something happens? What if I don't remember myself and I turn it on you?"

I shake my head again, because that's not what he's worried about.

"Take it," I say firmly. "I'll help you. That's what I'm here for, remember?"

Something happens when he looks at me, his blue eyes on my gray. It's like he's searching me for something, like he's wondering why I'm offering to do anything for him at all. And there's a familiar stirring somewhere deep inside me. It's only for a few seconds and it's nothing particularly strong. But for whatever reason, looking at Peeta in this moment makes it worth noting.

As soon as the feeling has subsided, I push the bow and arrow closer to him. And it's like I've worn him down when he reaches out and takes them from me. He holds them separately at his sides, his arms like limp noodles.

"Okay, so what now?"

"Well first, let's be quiet," I whisper, and his eyes look at me intently to let me know that he's listening. "There's no point teaching you if the only game to hunt is a tree."

He nods and I gently position myself behind him. I guide his arms so that he's holding the bow and the arrow in their proper position. Since there's nothing to shoot just yet, I help familiarize him with what's in his hand. We pivot together in silence, aiming from one target to the next. Just as he's getting a feel for this new weaponry, I'm reacquainting myself with Peeta's feel. It's different when we're sleeping and I happen to wake up in his embrace. But here, especially with him in my arms, it's something else entirely. There haven't been moments outside of bedtime that we've held each other close.

My attention is drawn to a noise I hear somewhere to my left. Peeta must have heard it too because I feel his body tense up as his head looks in its direction.

"Do you think that's something to shoot?" he whispers. But even at this low volume, there's a strange excitement in his voice.

"I do," I reply, and I pivot with him to the left. This time, the arrow is on alert, prepared for a target. "Maybe it's a rabbit, or a squirrel."

But Peeta doesn't even have time to respond when I have my answer. I see it, the squirrel scurrying up a tree several yards from us. If I had full control of the bow and arrow, we would already have meat. But as it is, I have to quickly guide Peeta's aim at the squirrel that threatens to disappear into the leaves above.

Once I'm sure that we have meticulous aim, I ask him, "Ready?"

Without hesitation, he replies, "Yes."

We take a deep breath as I help him release the arrow. It doesn't hit quite where I'm used to – the eye – but I think to myself that he'll improve as time goes on. By the time we get our third and last squirrel of the day, he's closer to my aim than he's ever been. He tells me he'd like to come with me again next time, and I'm relieved that he's so willing.

Later that night, when we've finished eating and we're just lying in bed from fullness, I ask him what his plans are for tomorrow.

"Nothing, probably," he says. "I'll probably bake bread to bring into the square. But I can do that at my house."

Looking at the ceiling, I respond, "You can just do that here. Most of your things are here anyway." I convince myself that my reasoning is one of convenience.

"But I'm here all the time. I didn't even go home once today. You're probably tired of me. I know I would be."

"I'm not," I say. "You can bake here tomorrow. And I'll even come into the square with you. I'm sure there are things I need. Stay."

Peeta doesn't respond. But when I look over at him, he's smiling at me.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: <strong>Sorry for the delay! It's been a really busy week, and I finally got to post this today! Hope you guy enjoy this, too! Feedback is always wonderful - your reviews seriously keep me going!


	6. Chapter 6

**GROWING TOGETHER  
><strong>Post-Mockingjay; Katniss and Peeta back in District 12, as they piece together their lives.

_Disclaimer: _I don't own any of this.

* * *

><p><strong>CHAPTER SIX:<strong>

Days, nights and weeks pass and before we know it, a month has gone by altogether.

More people have returned to District 12. Before, I wouldn't have been able to fathom why. Not this ashen, scarred wreck of a place. But now, our outlying district is finally becoming someplace to live, to thrive. In the heart of spring, everything is bursting with life. Against all odds, the Meadow is green again. Friends meet up with friends, having conversations in the sunlight. And even the Capitol's machines constructing the new medicines factory bring a sense of hope. Like Plutarch said, maybe things really will stick this time.

District 12 feels like home again. Or at least, as much of a home as it can be without the family I once had.

Watching and helping Peeta tend to the primrose bushes is a strange experience. To anyone else, it would be simple gardening: typical watering, trimming and weed removal. But to us, it's something else altogether. Sometimes, it even feels more than just Prim. When we're not working on the book, we're outside and tending to these bushes as if its an extension of our project. We're maintaining what these bushes represent, much like the memories we've tried to preserve.

Peeta lives with me now. It isn't official and we haven't said it out loud to each other, but he'll leave and tell me that he'll be home later – but always _this_ home, never his. Other than my father, I've never lived with a man. And I find that it's not as terrible of a concept as I once believed it to be. Peeta's presence brings warmth that this house once lacked. And I find that it brings a greater sense of routine to my life; it's comforting to know that he'll be there when I return in the day, and not just when I go to bed.

The time I spend hunting alone is almost equal to the time I spend hunting with Peeta. He hasn't reached a level of Katniss-competency, but to anyone else, he's actually a decent hunter. He still stomps around occasionally, but overall his tread is lighter than before. And though he doesn't shoot anything through the eye, he only misses his target one arrow out of every four.

In fact, he's handy enough with the weapon that I've given him his own set – an old bow and several arrows I got from Greasy Sae's in exchange for some meat. He was reluctant at first, but I told him to stop being an infant and accept the damn gift.

So, he'll hunt without me some days. But other days, he'll adventure on his own. I'll come home from the square to a squirrel or some larger game that he surprised me with. Three months ago, he wouldn't talk to me. Now, he's hunting for me. It's a life that I don't easily recognize.

Even more so when Peeta suggests I learn to bake. No, I say, I won't do it. And when he tells me it's only fair since I taught him to hunt, I refuse to see his logic. But then he says my choices are baking or painting, and it becomes clear that there is no choice at all.

"What's your favorite thing to bake?" I ask him one day in the kitchen.

"Cakes," Peeta replies as he pounds a floured ball of dough into submission. "Mostly for the decorating. I can lose myself frosting a cake. How are you doing over there?"

I'm sitting at the kitchen island with my personal ball of dough in front me, but it's not as malleable in my possession as it would be in Peeta's. I shrug.

"This is frustrating," I say.

He laughs and wipes his hands on his apron before taking the ball of dough away from me. Just as well – I would have let it sit there all day if I could.

"Fine then," he says when he returns to his counter space. "Of all the things I bake, what's your favorite thing to eat?"

I glare at him, upset that he doesn't already know the answer to that. But he just looks at me with one eyebrow raised.

"Cheese buns," I say deliberately. I'm about to tell him off and remind him that I've told him this already when it occurs to me that maybe he really does forget. Maybe he's regressing somehow. He must see the look of worry on my face when I say, "Do you really not remember?"

But he just laughs again.

"Of course I remember," he says. "Have you seen how many of those you devour? I was just joking around with you."

I throw a rag at him, but he ducks before it hits. He goes back to working on the bread and I smile. For the longest time, the forest was the only place to get a smile out of me. Suddenly, I'm finding that my house has the same effect.

This is what we have been like, joking with each other and spending minimal time taking anything seriously. After having spent most of our lives living in destitution, we can afford to keep things as sunny as the weather outside. Most days, we'll bake in the mornings and take a mid-afternoon walk outside when we're not hunting. We'll spend our evenings working on the book, but we're getting to a point where we've filled it up with as much as we have to offer. I get to thinking about asking others for contributions, namely Haymitch. But we haven't seen him at all.

Not that I need to see Haymitch, or anyone else for that matter. Peeta has done something to me. He's done something to make my life seem fuller, even though it's just the two of us. When it was just me and Gale, it was a friendship borne out of a need for survival; we gave each other what we couldn't provide for ourselves. We began as hunting partners, and I don't know that we ever fully deviated from that arrangement.

That's not what it is with Peeta. This is our first and only post-Hunger Games friendship. We're at a point where we don't have to worry about survival anymore. Sure, he's still not quite himself yet – there are nights when his nightmares are particularly troubling – but how much of our former selves can we ever hope to be? From what Dr. Aurelius mentions from time to time, we're improving. I'm convinced that part of it must come from the fact that we have time to spend, and we're choosing to spend it with each other. It's a thought that unnerves me, but it's a thought that visits too often.

He catches me lost in my thoughts and looking at him. He gives me a stern but obviously playful look.

"You're useless just sitting there, you know," he says.

"Just about as useless as a baker trying to hunt in the forest," I fire back.

He puts on a look of feigned injury before sending the rag and a couple clumps of dough hurling my way. I duck quickly and stupidly send a handful of flour flying through the air. We cough through our laughter.

If this is how I have to spend the rest of my life, I don't necessarily know that I would mind.

* * *

><p>I guess we're going to see Haymitch.<p>

The decision came a few days ago, when Peeta and I took a trip to the square. It was already a strange afternoon to begin with. I noticed Peeta waving at a girl with strawberry hair in the meadow. He explained that he saw her every now and then whenever he went down to the Hob, and his explanation only added to the strange wave of emotion that flooded my mind. I found myself inexplicably irritated with him for the remainder of our walk to the Hob.

Sae told us that she had seen Haymitch stumbling through the square, waiting for the next train to arrive. When she tried helping him, he aggressively refused. And rather than letting things escalate, she left him waiting outside for a train that wouldn't come for another couple days. But her concern remained, and she suggested that we visit him to see if we could maybe lift him from his drunken stupor.

I said no, but Peeta is determined. I don't know what it is about my relationship with Haymitch now that the war is over, but without Peeta's resolution and guidance, I would do away with the drunkard altogether. He hasn't done anything to me and I haven't done anything to him, but I think we would both rather forget – even if it means forgetting about each other. After all, whenever Peeta was gone, Haymitch and I were always involved in something together. It's a strange reality to think about when I realize he lives across the lawn from me, always so close to my life.

The day we visit him is hot and sticky, like summer has arrived early. Peeta makes honey buns to soak the liquor from Haymitch's body, but we know they will likely go untouched. Regardless, it's a generous gesture that I could probably never replicate. When in such close contact to Peeta's kindness, it's easy to feel inadequate and horrible.

"He'll be happy to see you," Peeta offers when he sees my troubled expression.

No he won't, I think. But I nod my head and let him guide me by the hand over to Haymitch's house. We've waited until dusk so that the weather might cool, but it hasn't.

We knock but we both know that there's no point. Thankfully, the door is unlocked and we let ourselves in. The stale stench of booze and filth stings my nostrils just as my eyes are forced to adjust to darkness. This is Victors' Village, where all the houses are the same. And yet it's strange to see just how differently one can live from the other.

"Haymitch?" Peeta calls out. He reaches for a switch so that we might bring light to this dark place. The overhead lamp flickers weakly before sustaining a modest glow. "Haymitch, we've brought food."

"It's no use," I half-whisper, but Peeta either doesn't hear me or pretends not to. He walks ahead of me toward the kitchen.

"Haymitch?" Peeta calls out again.

But we smell him before we see him. He's at the kitchen table holding a mug of ale, looking and smelling like he's been there ever since we last saw him. The floor is strewn with empty bottles and trash. Even his knife lies in the corner of the room, as if he'd tried throwing it at something.

"Haymitch," Peeta says tentatively, approaching the kitchen table. "We brought food."

"Food," Haymitch repeats. "The baker boy brought food."

Even in the darkness, I can see a touch of red in Peeta's cheeks.

"Honey buns," I clarify, rounding the doorway and standing next to Peeta so that Haymitch can clearly see me. His eyes widen and he tilts his head, but then he shrugs back into his hunched over position – the position of someone too drunk to hold himself up.

"What'd you call me?" Haymitch asks with a tilted grin.

I shudder involuntarily. "We brought you honey buns to soak the alcohol from your system. Looks like we should've brought more."

But he disregards me and just sizes me up, head to toe. "You came, sweetheart."

"I had no reason not to come," I say firmly. "Sae said she saw you the other day."

Haymitch's features contort. "That _witch_. I told her to leave me alone, and she goes off and tells the two of you. Well, trust me when I say I'm fine."

"You don't look all that fine to me," Peeta says bluntly. "Just drunk."

"You're observant. And you're late to the party," Haymitch says with a grandiose swing of his arms that causes some of his ale to spill onto the floor. "This is how I always live my life. Or have you forgotten?"

Peeta's features darken even more and I have to intervene before Haymitch says something else that could set him off.

"I'm not one for telling you what to do with your life," I tell him. "But since my mom isn't here and you're supposed to be acting as my mentor, I have a right-"

"I'm not your mentor," he retaliates harshly. "I'm not anybody's mentor anymore, especially now that you two are playing house together, acting like you've healed and recovered. So what is there left for me to do, really?"

"You could try not being a recluse," Peeta retaliates gruffly. "Now that the war is over, things are changing. Maybe you'd see if you took some time to walk through our district sober, for once. Things are getting better out there, and we're getting better, too. We're not acting."

Beneath the tray of honey buns I see Peeta's hands shaking, as if they threaten to give way and hurl the plate at Haymitch's head. But he doesn't, and Haymitch just scoffs.

"I doubt it. All of this," he says, swinging his arm around him, "doesn't just leave you. It sticks with you. And that's when you stop fighting it and take to drink."

Peeta slams the tray of honey buns so suddenly on the table that I can't keep from jumping.

"You're weak," he spits at Haymitch.

Peeta braces himself when Haymitch shoots up from his chair. But he sways so pathetically and nearly falls that Peeta backs down, giving the drunkard a look of pure disgust.

"I don't care if you think otherwise, but you're supposed to be helping us," Peeta reasons loudly. "We're all we've got here, and how can we ever move on if you're sitting here wasting your life away?"

Peeta is determined to win the argument, but I know defeat when I see it. Haymitch doesn't care at all about moving on. The only meaning his life ever had during the Hunger Games was to mentor the tributes, and even then, he couldn't do it properly. But now that everything is done and he's just as alone as he was before, there's not much more he can do. Just drink, I guess.

I rest my hand on Peeta's arm and whisper to him, "Let's just go. Maybe we can visit again when he's not as drunk." But I know that day won't come.

"Go on and listen to her," Haymitch says, struggling to maintain his balance.

But Peeta shakes his head. "You're supposed to be our family, Haymitch. We're the only ones that understand each other."

"Then you know just as well as I do that this is short lived," he says gravely. "Don't delude yourselves like those fools out there. Sooner or later, the two of you will be just as broken as I am. There is no better."

Something about that statement touches a nerve in Peeta, whose post-Capitol life hinges so much on the prospect that things might actually get better. To hear Haymitch say otherwise…it must be too much for him, because he turns around and storms out of the house.

It takes me a second to understand what has happened, but when Haymitch chuckles softly to himself, I'm brought back to reality.

"What did I tell you?" he asks, falling backward into his chair.

"Damn you, Haymitch," I snarl. "We're supposed to help Peeta together! You're supposed to help me!"

He simply shrugs and I run out of the house like an idiot chasing after Peeta. But I must have waited too long to act because it's dark when I reach outside and he's nowhere in sight. I run, hoping he'll be at my house even though I know better.

But it doesn't keep me from screaming his name out into the dark night.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: <strong>Sorry for the delay again! This month is really picking up because it's the last month of school, so the weeks are kind of busy for me. But I'll try my damnest to get the next chapter in sooner! As always, feedback is much appreciated! I love hearing back from you guys :)


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